


457 Days

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Calendar of Regrets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Misses John, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene set during Sherlock's two-year absence pursuing Moriarty's network. Sherlock is ill with a high fever and vivid dreams, revealing how much he misses London and John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	457 Days

_It was winter and Sherlock stood on the dark street looking up at the snowflakes fluttering past the warm glow from the windows of the Baker Street flat. He was cold, teeth chattering, but he couldn’t leave. Not yet._

_He waited, feeling faint with hunger, huddled in a dark doorway. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, needing a short rest. He instantly pictured the inside of the flat -- his chair, the mirror, the flocked wallpaper, a toasty fire in the grate, the mantle no doubt decorated with fairy lights for the holiday, the skull, his books. And John. John with a cup of tea or mug of coffee, reading the paper, knitting his brow over some absurd headline or bit of trivia._

_He opened his eyes, gazing up at the windows again for any sign of movement. If he could just see John, just catch a glimpse of him to know how he looked, how he was doing after all this time he’d been away... His teeth chattered violently. He was so cold._

Sherlock woke with a start, freezing yet drenched in sweat. He sat halfway up, confused, suddenly not sure where he was -- this wasn’t Baker Street. He’d only been dreaming about it. His head pounded, pulsing with pain, his eyes dry and scratchy, and he laid back down. He pulled at the blanket, curled up tighter in the narrow bed, trying to find warmth.

Fuck. He was sick. So fucking sick. He had a high fever, chills. Every muscle in his body ached, and his skin felt like hot, thin parchment paper.

Where the hell was he? He strained to remember. Romania? Moldova? Ukraine? He’d been crossing the region so often he couldn’t remember with certainty. And now, hit with a virus, weak, he was holed up in a cheap, rundown hotel. At least there was a bed. There had been some nights when he hadn’t even had that small luxury.

He closed his eyes, the room seeming to tilt, and he fell into another delirious sleep.

********

  
_He was 14. Mycroft was home for the weekend, snide and impeccably dressed. Sherlock hovered in the background, both wanting to be noticed and to be ignored. It was night and Mycroft stood in the doorway of his room. “Come outside,” he said mysteriously. Sherlock put down his book and followed._

_They went round an old shed in the back yard. Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one up, then offered one to Sherlock._

_Sherlock hesitated, then slid out a cigarette, took the light Mycroft offered, then inhaled. Mycroft was watching him closely, a smirk on his face, expecting him to sputter, break down in a coughing fit. Instead, Sherlock blew out a thin, practiced, and quite satisfying stream of smoke, relishing the rush of nicotine, and suddenly he was his current age, gazing coolly back at a still-young Mycroft. Mycroft’s smirk turned into a scowl. “I ought to tell Mummy you’re sneaking her cigarettes,” he muttered. “Careful, little brother, you’ll get hooked.”_

_Mycroft withdrew a packet from the breast pocket of his vest. “The plans, as promised,” he said, holding out the thick envelope._

_Sherlock took it, and, letting the cigarette dangle from the corner of his mouth, held the packet for a moment before sliding his finger under the seal, breaking it open. In an instant, bright red blood began pouring from the envelope, staining his hands, streaming to the ground. He dropped the envelope in shock._

_Mycroft simply looked at him. “Sorry,” he said impassively._

_*********_

Sherlock woke again, still feverish, this time burning up. Mycroft… he hadn’t had a Mycroft dream in months. He tried to dismiss it, shaking off the disgust at the sensation of the blood, warm and viscous, on his hands.

He realized he had no idea what time it was. His watch was on the dresser across the room, but he couldn’t imagine walking the short distance to retrieve it. It was evening, judging by the light slanting through the heavy wooden shutters. His throat now hurt, a raw burning every time he swallowed.

Christ, he felt awful. The last time he’d been this sick was nearly four years ago. John had made him stay in bed, checking in occasionally to bring water and tea and biscuits, efficiently taking his temperature and doling out medicine on schedule, ignoring his complaints and scowls and generally horrible disposition with patience and an occasional wry comment. Why John put up with him all that time, he didn’t know.

Sherlock turned away from the window, even the fading daylight too bright for his eyes, and stared through half-closed lids at the wall. He’d been sick, injured, battered, and bruised numerous times over the past year and half, and he’d always managed to pull himself together, push on, focus on the task. But lately, that had been more difficult to do. Lately, he’d started longing for the comforts of Baker Street. He missed it. He missed Mrs. Hudson’s chatter and fussing, Lestrade’s barked out orders and exasperated grumbling, Molly Hooper’s dependability and kind smile, and John….

Always back to John. What would he give to have John here, pressing a hand against his forehead to gauge his temperature with uncanny accuracy, to cajole him into drinking something and to rest, switching off the light, moving about in the kitchen, rattling dishes... Sherlock closed his eyes, aching with a profound homesickness.

He suddenly felt adrift, so godforsakenly alone that he squeezed his eyes shut. If he were to die in this dingy, dismal room, who would know? Who would care? He was already dead. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, hot tears pricking behind his eyelids. God, it wasn’t worth it. This wasn’t worth it...

*********

He later woke to a soft tapping at the door. He stirred, still achey, instantly cautious. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, made his way to the door in pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips. He opened the door a crack. It was the concierge, a handsome woman in her late 40s, her overly processed platinum blonde hair twisted into an intricate bun. She was dressed in impractically high heels and a well-fitted but worn skirt and blouse and was graced with delicate hands, a simple wedding band on her right-hand ring finger.

“Sorry to disturb you, Sir,” she said in English. “I thought I’d check to see if everything was all right. You haven’t been down all day.”

“I’m fine,” he rasped, his throat still sore.

She looked at him with a critical eye. “You’re quite sick.”

He merely shrugged, too tired to deny it.

“Let me bring you some tea. You have a fever?”

He nodded.

“Something for that, too, then. I’ll be right back.”

She soon returned with a tray that she set on the small table next to the bed. She handed him a tea cup and two pills, which she watched him swallow with difficulty.

“You have no one here? No family, friends in the city I could call for you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just passing through on business.”

She glanced at his battered backpack, and he knew that she was calculating what kind of business that might be. She said nothing, but took back the cup, set it on the saucer. “You should have phoned down. I could have helped you sooner.”

“I don’t… I didn’t think of that.”

She smiled. “You must be used to living alone.”

He was silent for a moment. “I used to live with someone. A long time ago.”

She folded her arms and looked down at him, deciding something. “I’ll check on you later. I can bring you some soup and tea, if you’d like.”

“You needn’t bother.”

“It’s no trouble. I live right downstairs. I’ve raised two children, and I can see that you’re too sick to help yourself.” She crossed to the door, then turned back briefly. “My name is Mihaela. Just call if you need something, Mr. W. Smith.”

He blinked uncomprehendingly at her, then realized that was the highly unoriginal name he had dashed across the hotel registry in a feverish fog.

She smiled again, and he could see that she knew he was lying about numerous things. He also could tell that she could keep secrets.

“Thank you,” he said, and she closed the door softly.

********

_The gun was leveled at John’s head and Sherlock was panicking. He couldn’t think. He didn’t understand the question the man with the gun kept asking, growing impatient and angry, demanding an answer in a language he didn’t recognize. Sherlock couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, his limbs like lead. He could only look at John, at the man’s finger starting to squeeze the trigger…_

He sat bolt upright, his heart pounding, gasping for air. His fingers shook as he scrabbled wildly at the lamp switch, finally managing to turn it on and fill the room with a small pool of light. He lay back on the pillow, trying to calm down.

There was a knock at the door, and he stumbled out of bed to answer it. Mihaela stood with another tray holding the promised soup and hot tea, “Are you all right?” she asked, concerned.

He ran a hand through his hair, nodding. “Just a nightmare,” he sank back down on the bed, glad for the glass of water she handed him.

“May I… ?” she asked, holding out her hand near his forehead. He nodded again, and she laid a cool palm across his head. He shut his eyes, savoring the first gentle contact he’d had in ages.

“Still very hot,” she pronounced, reaching round to shake out two more pills from the bottle on the table. “Maybe the fever will break tonight.”

He swallowed the pills, accepted the tray she handed to him. “What time is it?”

“Nearly 10 at night."

He took a few sips of soup, letting the salty broth sting his throat, then warm it. He looked up at her. “I’m keeping you from your family.”

“No, not really,” she sat down in a chair, uninvited, apparently having nothing better to do. “My boys are both at university, so they come and go…” she waved a hand.

“And your husband?” Sherlock asked pointedly, wanting to cut short any idle thoughts she may have.

“Oh, he’s dead,” she said matter of factly. “It’s been years, now. Cancer.” She twisted the ring on her finger. “But I have a boyfriend. Don’t worry,” she glanced at him, a smile playing on her face, “I won’t take advantage of your weakened state. I just feel a bit… responsible for you, since you’re all alone. And it’s very slow right now. I’m rather bored.”

Sherlock relaxed slightly, eating a few more spoonfuls of broth. “Do you own this place?”

She nodded, looking around at the walls, then sighed. “It was my husband’s. We planned to sell it eventually, but when he died… Well, here I am, years later.” She shrugged. “Some choices are made for you when you’re left behind, I suppose.”

Sherlock stilled, wondering what choices had been made, if any, in the many months since his disappearance. He pushed it from his mind.

Mihaela turned the subject toward him. “And what about you? You’ve been traveling quite a while?”

He held the cup of tea in his hands, letting the steam rise up to his face. “I’ve been traveling for more than a year. For 457 days, to be precise.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

He took a slow sip of tea. “I’m not.”

She gazed at the backpack again and crossed her legs, letting her shoe dangle off her lifted foot as she thought. Sherlock could pinpoint the moment when she drew two conclusions: drug-runner or mercenary. He supposed the latter description fit him best.

She could have left, could have said a lot of unpleasant things before kicking him out or calling the authorities. Instead, she asked another simple question. “Where is your home?”

He paused, deciding to tell the truth. “London.” It felt wonderful to say it out loud, to let the word and all its connotations fill the room for a brief second.

“Do you miss it?”

“I do. Very much.”

“So the person you used to live with… is still in London?”

“Yes,” he answered cautiously, picturing John at Baker Street again. "Of course.”

“John, was it?”

He froze, not knowing how she had gleaned that information.

“Sorry, I heard you shout that name when I came to the door -- the nightmare,” she looked at her hands. “It’s not my business. I just… sometimes I have terrible dreams, too. It’s a horrible feeling.”

He stirred the spoon slowly in the half-empty bowl, biding his time before speaking.

“I just thought maybe you needed to talk,” she continued. “You seem to have been alone a long time.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, suddenly wary. “You’re very curious.”

She stared back, unafraid. “I suppose I am. My father was in the military. He did things he couldn’t tell anyone about. You have something of that about you, except you’re not military. You’re freelance.”

He remained silent, watching her.

“But I also think,” she continued, “you’re on the good side.”

He didn’t answer, and she stood up to leave. “You’re safe here,” she said directly, smoothing her hands down her skirt. “So… I’ll collect the dishes in the morning. Good night, Mr. Smith. I hope you have better dreams.”

He stared after her, thoughts of London and John twining in his head, wondering if he even knew where the hell the line marking the good side was drawn.

*********

_He was in his bedroom at Baker Street, standing near the mirror of the wardrobe as he took out a hanger for his suit jacket. He placed the jacket back among the other dark suits, then began loosening the buttons of his cuffs, still ruminating about a case after a long day._

_He looked up as John came into the room. Without a word, John gave him a quiet smile before laying his hands on his wrist, taking over the unbuttoning of the cuffs, first the left, then the right. John then reached up and began undoing the top button of Sherlock’s shirt, working his way down slowly, moving closer after the last button was freed, sliding his palms past the open shirt over the firmness of his ribs._

_Sherlock looked down into his eyes, and it seemed as natural as breathing to put his hands behind John's head and lean down, letting their lips meet softly, parting slightly, and he was filled with a warmth that flooded his entire body, causing him to smile. John felt the upward curve of his mouth and grinned back, the kiss momentarily broken, mended again when Sherlock moved his hands down to the small of John’s back, pulling him against him, mouths and bodies melding, fingers gripping possessively into muscle as they lowered onto the bed, the press of hips and chest a welcome weight, then dissolving...._

Sherlock woke, the immediacy and sensuality of the dream fading away, leaving him empty with longing and regret. It wasn’t the first such dream he’d had since vanishing. Initially, he’d been unnerved by them, but as they increasingly recurred he began to welcome the escape, letting himself surrender to the illusion of peace and intimacy.

The dreams, he knew, were mirroring what he’d tried to keep suppressed - and had repressed - for years. But now, exiled from home, from John, his true feelings simmered to the surface, if only in the dark of night. When he made it back to London, he would not leave John again… When the time was right, he would tell him everything, if he could summon the courage.

He turned onto his back, threw his forearm over his eyes, wishing his body would cool from the fever, from the dream. His other hand went to his chest, still bare, then skimmed across his burning skin, down to his waist, his fingertips poised along the low waistband of the loose pajamas. He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the feel of John’s hands and mouth from the dream, his palm delving lower, touching himself, fully erect, then stroking, escaping again.

********

Several days later he leaned against the window sill, looking out at the small courtyard below where Mihaela was hanging up several rugs to air them out. She had just stopped by his room to deliver breakfast and his freshly laundered clothes, teased him about his overly long hair that badly needed a cut, told him he was looking much better.

He did feel a bit better but was still weak, and had decided to stay several more days before moving on. He hadn’t bothered to recharge his phone, which had gone dead nearly a week ago. He didn’t care. He wasn’t of any use anyway. Whatever was next could wait.

He craved a cigarette but resisted, his sore throat and tight chest winning out over a smoke. He watched as a man strolled into the courtyard, put his arms around Mihaela’s waist, nuzzled her neck, causing her to melt back into his chest for several long moments. The boyfriend, apparently. The man finally stirred, saying a few words into her ear before giving her a long kiss, leaving again with a casual wave as she smiled after him.

Sherlock felt a pang of yearning, then let his gaze rise to the tiled rooftops, a church bell tolling the quarter hour. His thoughts drifted as his eyes followed the sweeping arc of a bird flying unburdened, up, over, away to some distant point. It was Day 461.

**Author's Note:**

> See part 2 for John's POV.


End file.
